The Rebellion
by Ranger-Corpses
Summary: Morgarath got up, striding over to Halt. He clasped his hand and shook it. "Welcome to the rebellion, Halt." Rated T for suggested mature subjects and killing
1. Prologue

**I've actually been thinking about this for quite a while now and decided to write it up. Set right at the beginning of The Early Years. Basically, Halt never meets Crowley and joins up with Morgarath. So ya, here we go.**

 **DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING, EVERYTHING BELONGS TO JOHN FLANAGAN!**

* * *

Halt slouched in his saddle miserably, wishing the rain wasn't so blasted persistent. It drowned out all sense of warmth and comfort, replacing it with cold wetness.

Crashing sent his head flying up. In the nearby inn was a window illuminated by firelight. In it, he could see shadows of three people, one smaller and slimmer than the other two. He could just make out a young girl screaming through the crashes. Then, a new shadow joined in. A fist was shaken and the two bigger shadows went after him. In the process they stepped out of the window frame and Halt could see no more. Shrugging, he urged his horse on. A bar fight, most likely.

* * *

Two large men stopped Halt, pointing swords at his horse's large chest. He reared up, kicking his hooves.

"Easy boy," Halt murmured to him. The horse fell back to the ground, though it still pranced warily.

"What do you want?" Halt called down to the two men sharply.

"Where are you headed?" one shot back. He was a large burly man with a large beard and a bit of a potbelly showing his fondness of food and, judging from the smell pouring off him, strong beer.

"To meet with your ruler - King Oswald I think his name was," Halt answered.

"We'll be escorting you," the second. This man was slimmer than his companion however not in the stick-like way. Where the other man had both fat and muscle, this man had muscle and just that.

The bigger man whistled a third man came out from a nearby alleyway leading three horses. He was skinny in the extreme and kept his eyes lowered.

"I'm pretty sure I can read a map," Halt said as they surrounded him, the big man to the front of Halt and the well-muscled man to the back. The third man scuttled away.

"Shut it," the front man growled.

"Very polite, aren't we," Halt muttered under his breath.

"I said, shut it," the man shouted, turning around in his saddle.

"Ok, ok," Halt said, raising his hands. He didn't want to start any unnecessary fights as he was new to the country. Besides that, he wanted to know how well these men could use the swords he'd seen hanging from their belts. He liked going into fights knowing if it would be a skirmish or a battle.

As they were heading out of the village an old man came up to them, desperation glowing in his grey eyes.

"There's bandits, good sir, bandits attacking my farm! Could you please spare a few minutes to take care of them sir?" he pleaded.

"Pathetic peasant," one man laughed, urging his horse forwards, nearly bowling over the poor farmer.

Halt narrowed his eyes at this behavior, disgusted.

"Oi, pick on someone your own size," he challenged, his horse trotting forwards.

"So the shrimp rebels?" one man laughed. Halt bristled. While he knew that he was not as big as a normal man, he didn't think that he qualified for being a 'shrimp.'

Not giving the two men any chance to react, Halt drew his saxe knife, slashing at the man closest to him. He could feel the sharp blade cutting through skin and muscle and suppressed a grimace of discomfort. He'd never had to actually use his knives on a person before - only ever small animals - and, though he knew he was doing the right thing, couldn't help that small part of him the was repulsed at hurting a living, thinking being.

However that was quickly forgotten as the muscled man, shocked into hesitation, jumped into action. He drew his sword - a quick and easy movement, just that small action showing his skill - and urged his horse forwards, riding one-handed.

Halt drew his throwing knife and crossed his two blades into an 'X' as the sword came crashing down, the weight and strength of the attack causing his arms to give a few inches.

By now the first man he'd attacked had gotten enough time to have recovered and join in the attack, albeit weaker and less effective than he'd normally have been.

Halt couldn't spin around in his saddle to face his new attacker so instead went for another tactic: having his horse attack him.

Halt ordered his horse to kick at the man behind him, a move practiced to perfection over countless practice sessions with his mentor Pritchard.

The man, previously only injured with a deep cut to his bicep, now flew from his saddle into a wall of a nearby building, slamming into it headfirst. Halt now only had to deal with one attacker, as he was either dead or unconscious.

Halt went on the offensive now, slashing and cutting with his saxe knife, occasionally deflecting the sword being wielded by the man before him with his throwing knife.

When is was finally over, Halt heaved a sigh of relief and wiped his knives off on the ground, slumping out of his saddle. The killing blow had been a low one, distracting his attacker with a side cut with his saxe, thrusting his throwing knife up his ribs.

His first fight ever and he'd only just managed to come out of it unharmed and won it with a dirty trick.

Halt suppressed a sigh and turned the the farmer whom had been standing and staring at the fight.

"Shall we go see to those bandits?" he asked.

"Y-yes," the farmer stuttered, wide-eyed. Halt mounted his horse, allowing the farmer to lead the way. Halt shifted when he kept shooting fearful glances towards him, but accepted it. He did just attack two men, after all.

The bandits (three of them) were easy to take care of. A fight with just one of them, ending in an unconscious body slouched on the ground had convinced them to give up stealing pretty quickly.

So when he returned to the road he'd been traveling on previously, he was taken by surprise when five sets of hands and three swords lept out at him from behind a building.

"What the bloody hell?" Halt shouted, fighting to get away. His horse shied and pranced away. Halt, unbalanced by the grabbing hands and flashing swords, was thrown off his nervous horse, landing on the dusty ground with a ' _woof'_ of air leaving his lungs.

He was jerked upwards unceremoniously by the arms, still winded, and tied up.

"You're under arrest under charge of treason," one attacker said. Halt's eyes narrowed as he saw who it was. The large man he'd fought against earlier stood before him, fingering his sword pommel.

Slung across the back of a horse not his own, Halt wondered how his life had gone from being the Crown Prince of Clonmel to being accused of an act of treason he'd never committed.

* * *

Halt was led into the throne room, held by two soldiers armed to the teeth. More soldiers guarded the entryways and were placed around the large room, and four more were standing guard by the throne in the center of the room, two on each side. Clearly, the man seated upon the throne was important.

Said man was tall and skinny with frightfully pale skin and straight, white-blond hair reaching just past his shoulders. He was suited up in black clothing which served to further accent his paleness and had a huge broadsword leaned up against the arm of the throne. His eyes were black, endless pools of nothingness and they bored holes in Halt when they were turned upon him.

"I admire your fighting abilities," the pale man declared.

"So I'm brought here on accusation of treason - which I never did commit - and you state that I fight well? Is this a joke?" Halt asked sarcastically. "Who are you anyways?"

"Ah, a foreigner. Those are always fun. Hibernian, are you? You have the accent for it," the man informed him.

"Yes, Hibernian," Halt ground out.

"I am Lord Morgarath of Gorlan Fief. You are…?" Morgarath left the question hanging.

"Halt Arratay," he answered.

"Halt Arratay," Morgarath repeated, trying the name out. Halt resisted the urge to smirk. 'Arratay' was in fact, not his last name but the Galician word for 'halt.' Essentially, Morgarath was saying 'Halt Halt.'

"As I said, I like how you fight. Admire your skill, if you will. Would you like to work for me?" He paused then went on, not waiting for an answer. "Now of course you did kill one of my soldiers, but that can be excused. I assume you didn't attack him because you felt like it?"

"Of course I didn't. I always have a reason," Halt stated.

"Sensible."

"And what's your cause? What shall I be working for, should I agree to your offer?" Halt asked.

"The current king of Araluen is corrupt and power-greedy," Morgarath hissed. Halt could practically hear little puddles of contempt 'plopping' into the stone below, it was dripping off his words to much. "I want to help the people and rid him of this world for he will surely be the downfall of this kingdom."

"How poetic," Halt muttered under his breath. Then, louder, "sure, why not?"

Morgarath got up, striding over to Halt. He clasped his hand and shook it.

"Welcome to the rebellion, Halt."

* * *

 **Also, after the fight Halt was a bit out of character. Basically it was his first real fight ever, first kill or be killed moment, you know? I feel like that's put a person into shock pretty quickly, even someone as awesome and epic as Halt. Plus he's younger than he was in the main books which must constitute for something.**

 ** _Question of the chapter:_ Why do you think Halt was so eager to join Morgarath and put down the "corrupted" king? Is there some ulterior motive, or is he just trying to find a purpose in this new land?**


	2. Chapter One

Halt shut the door to the room he'd been given, carefully locking it. He wasn't quite sure that he trusted this Morgarath character yet. He took off his dark green cloak, hanging it over a convenient arm jutting off a chair.

He'd get rid of every corrupt leader if he could, Halt thought to himself. He then remembered his brother and winced. No doubt he'd be a corrupt leader once his time to rein came. Halt just wasn't sure if, had he been on a mission to rid the world of horrible leaders, he could murder his brother.

Halt traced the scar on his palm, the slight indentation taking up the front and center of his hand. It had been cut when he had believed Ferris had loved him - when he had loved his brother.

Halt had suggested it. They'd been only seven at the time and had gone off into the castle gardens. They'd made vows to each other, that they'd never be apart or something of the like. Halt had brought the shard of glass and they each made the cut on the other's hand.

All it stood for now, Halt thought with a humorless snort, was false promises and childish innocence.

"Sir, Lord Morgarath wants you," a voice called outside his door as a fist rapped sharply on his door.

Halt stood up and walked out the door, swinging his cloak over his shoulders along the way.

"Shouldn't keep him waiting then, should we," Halt said, fastening the clasp. The voice who'd been calling for him was a young boy and he stood nervously for another moment before leading Halt down to the throne room. Along the way he'd flicked the hood of his cloak up, leaving his face in shadows. He was unsure of what he'd be facing once he got to where Morgarath was, but he wanted to be prepared.

He padded silently to where Morgarath was sprawled across his throne, stopping off to the side of it. A short young man was entering the room, escorted by two guards as Halt had been earlier.

He had on a mottled grey and green cloak - very similar to Pritchard's, Halt noticed. He couldn't see anything else about the man as his face was shrouded in shadows due to the hood covering his head.

"Remove your hood," Morgarath ordered. The man did so and a shock of slightly damp fiery hair red was exposed; damp due to the rain drizzling down outside. He had big green eyes and a splattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose. Halt couldn't help but notice that he had a long cut from the side of his ear down to his jaw (sure to leave a scar) and a big bruise shadowing one green eye.

"And you are?" Morgarath drawled, rolling his hand in the air.

"Ranger Crowley Meyatyn," the young man said sharply.

"Crowley," he repeated, emphasizing the vowels and drawing the name out as if it were something to take offense to.

"Yes, sir."

"I hear you've attacked my soldiers?" Morgarath went on.

"They were terrorizing an inn and threatening a waitress - I was only protecting the people, as is my job," Crowley replied easily.

"Were they waving swords?" Morgarath asked. Crowley opened his mouth, but was cut off. "Threatening torture? Killing, or getting ready to do so?"

"Well, no," the young Ranger said, shifting. "I however have a hunch that-"

"A hunch!" Morgarath cried. "Great Scott, get the King! The Ranger has got a hunch!"

"Sir, I do believe that he was getting ready to…" Crowley broke off, increasingly uncomfortable. He put his weight on one foot then the other, then back again. Wringing his hands, prompted by a rolling hand, he continued. "I do believe they were going to…"

Halt stepped forwards as Crowley once again tried to get himself to say whatever it was he was trying to say.

"The man's clearly uncomfortable with the topic," he said. "Maybe if we just went with his word, let him off the hook and punished the soldiers?"

"Yes, I'll have them flogged," Morgarath said immediately.

"No no no, I wasn't, maybe if you just-" Crowley broke off, frustrated.

"Very good solution," Halt said, though his heart wasn't in it. He'd been initially going for making them be stable hands for a few months, strip them of their positions as soldiers or something of the like. This was unnecessary and too much, or so Halt thought.

Morgarath waved his hand and Crowley reluctantly was led away.

* * *

Halt lay in his bed, trying to shut out the screams. They'd been keeping him awake for hours, tossing and turning in his bed. The screams of the tortured.

They were all in his mind.

Led to guilt from not trying to fight harder against Morgarath punishing the two soldiers so terribly, he'd begun to imagine the screams of them. Logically, he knew it was all in his mind. Yet still they cried, filling his ears, drowning out all form of thought.

In fact, Morgarath was punishing someone. In a dungeon so far underground that no shout, scream or yell for help could be heard, Morgarath had a whip in his hands.

Crowley tensed again as the hard leather was brought down upon his back once more. He refused to scream, yet his eyes filled with reflex tears.

Three more strikes until it stopped.

"That's for attacking my soldiers and this," Morgarath kicked his shin, causing his leg to buckle, "is for not telling me what you had in mind."

When his leg buckled he fell, hanging by the shackles holding him in an 'X' shape. They pulled on his wrists and shoulders and cut into the skin underneath them. Choking back a cry of pain he growled against his better judgement, "you will be stopped."

Morgarath walked in front of him, smiling.

"You know why I won't?" he asked, still grinning. Then his face hardened and he spat, "because I never leave survivors."

Only when he had left the room, door falling shut behind him with a loud thud of wood on stone, did Crowley allow himself to cry, tears falling onto the cold ground. Ambushed, he thought angrily. Why couldn't he have seen the signs that Morgarath wouldn't let this go? Ambushed by ten soldiers, led to this hellhole. Beat like an animal. He knew he'd never get out of this. He knew that Morgarath considered him a threat.

He knew that no one would be coming to save him.

* * *

 **A bit shorter than the prologue...I guess my excuse is that it ended really well here. By the by, if I go by what I have planned, this will be very deep. As in having layers in what each character does. Like if someone gets mad every time someone says the word 'pony,' there's a reason. Maybe someone brutally killed their pony and get pissed whenever reminded about how its not alive because of someone who got off the hook. Of course it's not going to be anything like that, but that's just a silly example.**

 ** _Question of the chapter:_ Why does Halt feel so guilty about the punishment predicament? Why does he feel like he's the reason someone is being tortured, even when logic kicks in and says 'Morgarath wouldn't do this!'? **


	3. Chapter Two

**I'm so so SO sorry for the wait! First I had to go see family then I went on vacation then I got grounded from the internet then I forgot my computer so I couldn't do anything to this. At least its a bit longer. It's one thousand four hundred fifty three words long, so its longer than last chapter, which was one thousand ninety one words. Anyways, I am happy to present...THE CHAPTER!**

 ***Side note: I did most of this on my phone while on the plane/road, so if you catch any mistakes please let me know. Thanks!***

* * *

Halt got very little sleep that night, only occasionally dozing off for short increments at a time.

He remembered when, after his brother had gone sour towards him, he'd gotten unfairly punished.

' _Father, Halt jumped on me,'_ he'd wine. ' _Father, punish him for punching me! I didn't do anything.'_

"Didn't do anything my ass," Halt muttered to himself, dragging himself out of his bed. Not bothering to even attempt to fix his unkempt hair any more than dragging a hand through it once, he threw on his clothes and he, swinging his cloak on.

He'd decided to go for a short walk in the woods when Morgarath, all suited up in his black clothing, clapped a hand on his back and guided him into a room with a long table.

"Halt," he said by way of greeting, throwing on a smile. "why don't you dine with me."

"What's the special occasion? " Halt asked sarcastically.

"You're one of my best men," Morgarath replied with a shrug. "Might as well get to know you."

"How do you know I'm 'one of you best men?'" Halt asked suspiciously.

Morgarath didn't reply, casually switching the subject to his lazy guards can get. Halt joined in the conversation, however he remained suspicious. What of, he wasn't quite sure. Something just wasn't right.

* * *

Finally Halt got away from Morgarath. He decided to explore a bit and get familiar with the area he'd be living in.

Starting with nearby buildings, he worked his way out to the outskirts of the village. It was there that he found a trapdoor, covered in earth and leaves, made to look like a patch of ground like any other.

He'd only found it when he stepped on the area by chance and, hearing that it sounded not only hollow but wooden, scraped away the dirt covering it.

Now he opened it and slipped quietly down the stairs after shutting the door behind him, soft boots making nearly no sound on the wooden steps. Once he'd stepped on a rouge step and winced at the loud creak it'd given.

Finally Halt reached the end of the stairs and was glad for it. He was starting to become quite dizzy from the close spirals of the stairs, continually twisting around sharply.

Opening the door set at the foot of the stairs released a putrid smell into the stairwell, making Halt gag.

It smelled of sweat, blood and death down here. It suffocated all other smells, causing Halt to believe he'd found a torture chamber, or something quite like it.

Swallowing his nausea, he continued on, drowning out his fears of getting caught. His thirst for adventure, made strong early on in his life, made him go on.

And so, by the light of dying torches, he found the man from the night before, Crowley.

His shirt had been removed and there were multiple red, angry gashes running across his back. He was chained so he couldn't move nor find a comfortable position, yet appeared to be in a sort of sleep-like state.

Halt immediately searched for the keys which he found by a rack of assorted swords, knives, and whips.

"Wake up," he said to Crowley, whose head snapped up quickly. "We need to get a move on. I'm going to unlock your chains, but be quiet."

Crowley nodded, hardly daring to believe his luck. Somehow this man had found him.

His arms dropped down to his sides, bringing complaints from sore muscles held in place for hours as they were suddenly jostled.

"Thanks," he said breathlessly, rubbing his wrists.

"Don't mention it," Halt said.

They near ran up the steps, not worrying about concealment until Halt hit his head on the trapdoor.

"You're going to have to not show your face around here for a while," Halt said.

"Believe me, I know. Morgarath has got a long memory," Crowley relied. Halt flicked his hood up and pushed the door open. Light flooded the two.

Sprinting away, Crowley called over his shoulder, "might want to think about working for someone else."

It wasn't until Halt got back to the castle he pieced what Crowley said together.

He knew that Halt was working for Morgarath, whom had beaten Crowley so savagely.

* * *

Crowley had only recognized the man who'd saved him when his hood had been covering his face. In the throne room he'd had his hood up, not taking it down until after Crowley had left. Recognizing him had put down his nagging sense of familiarity.

That left open question unanswered. Why was he working for Morgarath when he'd saved Crowley, a Ranger? Unless he was trying to infiltrate the evil Baron's system, Crowley couldn't figure out how it all fit together.

And yet, this whole problem with Morgarath was being kept secret, as the Corps (those who were left of it, anyways) had only their own puzzle pieces that could be easily denied.

Law is going terribly? It's the Ranger's fault. Rangers are being replaced with incompetent fools? Bring up reasons for past Rangers to have been taken out.

The last person to go against Morgarath openly ended up in a hanging. 'Treason,' Morgarath had cried. 'This man is conspiring against the throne!' And old King Oswald, in his state of illness, could not even get out of bed, much less go to a trial against a Ranger.

And so, with Morgarath covering up his acts, with Oswald too sick to see what was progressing, with Prince Duncan running rampant, no one quite knew what was going on.

Or maybe, Crowley thought, returning to his thoughts on the stranger, he had been tricked. Maybe he didn't know of Morgarath's wrongdoings.

While turning these thoughts over in his head, he had gotten to a small inlet, in which a town resided. Crowley had been jogging in the shadows, hoping that he would encounter no one.

He now crept up to a house, and in the yard clothes were hung out to dry. It seemed like a house belonging to a family that was more well off than most, and that was why he was able to nab a shirt off the line without more than a small pang of guilt. He had no money for Morgarath had taken it all, and could not pay the family back.

Nevertheless, he walked away with a shirt on his back.

* * *

How had the man named Crowley recognized him? That was the question turning in Halt's head.

 _No no no,_ he thought, shaking his head angrily. _It's not_ how _he did it that matters, it's what he_ said.

' _Might want to think about working for someone else!'_ he'd called over his shoulder.

Morgarath was working to save Araluen from a terrible and corrupt king.

 _Right?_

That's what he'd been told, at least. But why would Morgarath lie about his intentions? What greater cause could he have?

Whatever the answer was, whether Crowley was confused in his thinking or if Morgarath had lied, he needed to find out.

He laid it out in his mind.

First, Morgarath says he's working against a bad king to help the land. Next, he did a sort of trial against Crowley. Then Halt finds a torture chamber with Crowley in it, beaten. Finally, Crowley had advised him to quit working for Morgarath.

 _A way to find out,_ Halt thought to himself. _I need a way to find_ _out the truth._

Assuming the Morgarath was lying about his intention, would never spill the beans. Not unless Halt managed to somehow trick him or become a close confidant.

If he asked the soldiers, they might tell him. Still going on the lying scenario, some might've been told false stories about what he was doing. Others might've been told, the soldiers higher up in the ranks. However they'd know not to tell anyone.

The villagers just might know. One word slipped here and it'd spread like wildfire. But, Halt thought, the truth would be twisted so much it would be wildly different, only as reliable as the gossip the ladies chatted about over Sunday's tea.

Maybe he could find Crowley and make the man tell him what he meant. That would be the most reliable way of finding out.

That is unless Crowley was one of the bad guys.

Halt groaned and dropped his head into his hands, exasperated at how uncertain this all was. He needed to get it out of Morgarath's own lips if he wanted to be one-hundred percent certain on the truth. To do that, he'd have to become as close to Morgarath as his shadow was to his feet.

So that's what he would do, Halt decided.

* * *

 ** _Question of the chapter:_ Why is Halt so determined to find out the answers? Why is he so convinced that Morgarath is lying about something? After all, Crowley did attack his soldiers. **


	4. Chapter Three

**Ok, so to make up for that one short chapter, here's one that's 2,439 words long (exactly, not including any author's notes)**

* * *

Becoming Morgarath shadow however, was harder than one might think. First off, as Halt learned, no one was ever quite sure what he did during the day. He disappeared after breakfast and was never seen until long after dark. Halt didn't want to chance getting spotted by him, and so never risked sneaking after him.

And then there was the matter of Crowley. If Halt were to trail Morgarath and was found, would he suffer the same fate as the Ranger?

Halt had no doubt in his mind that it was Morgarath who'd put Crowley in that hole in the ground. Crowley had no reason to lie to him.

'Believe me, I know. Morgarath has got a long memory,' Crowley had said. Why would he fib about who had - Halt winced visibly - beat him?

A knock sounded, snapping Halt out of his thoughts. "Lord Morgarath wishes to see you in the throne room," called a voice.

"Right," Halt said quietly to himself. "Make him trust you.

And with that he swung his cloak on and walked out of the door, flipping his hood up on his way out. He'd decided to continue with his practice of, whenever summoned to the throne room - the place he first met Crowley - keeping his face sufficiently hidden in the shadows. It might come in handy later on, remaining mostly anonymous.

"Alan Harley, you were caught stealing taxes," proclaimed Morgarath as he walked into the room. Halt took his standard position of standing just behind the throne.

This Alan was a good-looking man, if a tad over-weight. His hair was just beginning to thin, which suggested he was in his late thirties or early forties.

"How did he go about it?" Halt asked. "How much was supposedly stolen?"

"Are you questioning the accusations of several different, good-hearted people?" Morgarath asked.

"No, however I do like sufficient evidence before I declare someone to be a thief," Halt said, fighting to keep his annoyance out of his words.

"To answer your questions," Morgarath drawled, ignoring the trembling Alan, "he would collect an amount of taxes too high and then take the extra, sometimes stealing more than what he stole from the villagers. And as to how much he has stolen during his time as tax collector, that is unknown. No one knows exactly how long he's been doing this."

"Please," Alan pleaded, "I only did it to ensure that my wife and children were well off!"

"I paid you more than enough for your work," Morgarath stated in a bored voice. Halt did have to admit that he did seem to have more than enough money - more than one ring adorned his fingers, and his clothes, while at first glance seeming plain, were of fine quality.

"Is there any evidence?" Halt asked.

"As I said earlier, many villagers have testified against him," Morgarath said to Halt. "What do you think?"

Halt suspected that Morgarath was only asking for his opinion to see what Halt would answer, to see if he had the right frame of mind - however for what, he had not a clue.

"Without hearing the villagers claims, I am inclined to lean towards guilty, however listening to their testimonies really is the deciding factor," Halt said, hoping that he had sounded neutral enough.

Morgarath nodded and, after a moment for suspense, declared, "guilty. Alan Harley, you are sentenced to death by hanging, which will be held out in three day's time."

Halt's stomach dropped. Death by hanging for jiffing some people? Yes, that required punishment, but not anything that extreme.

Halt forced himself to stay silent, repeating one thought over and over in his mind.

Earn his trust.

Don't let him suspect you.

Earn his trust.

Don't let him suspect you.

* * *

Halt had gone back to his room and was now pacing.

Something's not right. He's lying. I don't know why, or what he's lying about, but he is.

Change direction.

He's just too cruel with his punishments. A vicious beating for protecting someone, even if those being protected against were soldiers? Death for stealing?

Change direction.

It was all wrong. Surely someone attempting to do good, to rid a kingdom of a bad ruler, wouldn't do that?

Change direction.

It was that thought that led Halt to believe Morgarath was lying. The most likely answer was that he was doing something against the king - and not in the helpful way. If he were to rule over this kingdom and kept his harsh punishments...Halt shuddered at the thought.

He dropped onto his bed, sighing in frustration. It was all so complicated, so iffy. As a foreigner, he really didn't have much of an idea of what went on in Araluen as far as politics went. It was one of those, she said this and he said that dilemmas. You never really know who's right for sure until it's possibly too late; unless you confront them.

Halt decided he would make good of the daylight still left and go out to the woods and practice his archery. He grabbed his bow and quiver full of arrows and stalked out of his room. Once he was in the woods, his breathing became easier and his speed-walk turned to a stroll as he looked around him at the scenery.

Here, he was in his element. This was where he could always go if he needed to cool down, if he needed space. He could climb a tree to escape from humanity, throw knives or shoot arrows to relieve stress.

After carving a few rough circles into a few different trees, all alternating distances, he set several arrows flying off, all of them hitting the center of the makeshift targets. After a while of this, he switched to his throwing knife and saxe, sometimes throwing them standing, kneeling, even jumping out from behind a tree a couple times.

Talk to Crowley.

The idea hit him out of nowhere, and it filled him with excitement, the excitement of finally, possibly, getting some answers. His stomach clenched and seemed to flutter about from nervous excitement.

He glanced up at the sun filtering through the trees and estimated that he still had four or five hours of sunlight left. If he came back late, he could say he hadn't noticed how late it was getting.

He would do it.

Now.

* * *

Crowley sat under a tree, wishing for the millionth time that Morgarath hadn't robbed him of his money. Because he had nothing, he couldn't sleep in an inn nor could he curl up in his cloak. That had been confiscated along with his weapons, so he was left defenseless.

And so, as he had a certain amount of pride, he chose to stay in the woods rather than beg for a few nights somewhere without payment for the owner.

The sores on his back and shoulders kept him from sleeping in his preferred position, on his back. They stung whenever he moved, so even if he had a bow and arrows, he wouldn't be able to use them effectively without causing a shitload of pain.

Any way he looked at it, he was helpless in nearly all manners unless he found his way back to his cabin - but he had no map, no telling exactly where he was, no telling which way to go.

Crowley groaned in exasperation. Cursing viciously, he got up and reluctantly padded into town. Once he located the inn, he swallowed his pride and went in.

"Anything for you, sir?" the innkeeper asked, wiping down the counter of the bar.

"Just need to see a map. Got robbed, no clue where I am anymore," Crowley said, grinning ruefully.

"Bandits," the innkeeper agreed with a touch of disgust.

"I'm Dan, Dan Jones. What's you name?" he asked. Dan Jones was his normal, and he used it now to hopefully hide from Morgarath a little longer.

"Garrett Snow," the innkeeper replied, scrubbing an especially sticky spot on the counter.

"Mind showing me to a map?" Crowley asked, grinning in a friendly way.

"Oh, ya, hang on," Garrett said, dropping the rag and going into another room, probably his own room or something of the like. He returned a few moments later with a piece of rolled up parchment, which he unfurled on a nearby table. Crowley strided over and peered at it intently.

"About where am I now?" he asked, still staring at the map.

"Here," Garrett replied, pointing to a small town Southeast of Gorlan.

"Thanks," Crowley murmured. He soon knew exactly where to go: Northwest, then, after a while, Southwest to avoid the large inlet. "I'd pay you, but like I said-"

"Bandits," Garrett said understandingly. "No problem, don't worry about it."

Crowley grinned and stood. "Well, you've been a load of help, thanks again."

"Oh, take this map!" Garrett cried, grabbing it up off the table and shoving it into Crowley's hands.

"I couldn't," Crowley said, though he hoped that the helpful innkeeper would insist.

"You will. I have a couple extras anyways," he said.

"Thank you," Crowley said again, grateful.

After chatting for a few minutes with Garrett, whom Crowley genuinely liked, he left and started off for home.

* * *

Halt knew that Crowley had headed Southeast and only thought it logical to head that way. That was his best lead.

And so he walked off, knowing that there was no use in tired himself out. At this thought, he remembered his horse, which he'd named Lightning. Had he not been thrown over the back of someone else's horse, he could be riding off in increased speed and reach his destination faster.

His eyebrows knit together angrily. He'd only just remembered his horse, and was furious he had lost her. She was one of Hibernia's finest.

Nevertheless, Halt continued onwards, determined to get answers, even if he had to force them out.

Of course he'd not be using torture, Halt thought suddenly. He didn't approve of it, even in normal times. But after what Crowley went through in that horrible, dungeon-like place, he wouldn't even think of it.

He soon switched to alternating between jogging and walking, and soon found it was quite a good method for traveling semi-quickly without tiring too terribly bad.

Soon he reached a small village, in which he found tracks leading from a tree (the grass was pressed down in a way which suggested that a body had been laying upon it for a while, which Halt found promising) towards the town where he lost the footprints in the mass of tracks on the path.

The most likely place Halt could think of Crowley going was the inn, though he didn't know why. He'd been under the impression that Crowley had no money.

So why was he going to an inn?

Halt shrugged. He'd ask around there then, if unsuccessful, he'd figure it out from there.

However, he need not worry for once he asked the innkeeper, Garrett, he knew even the fief he was going to.

Halt thanked the innkeeper and started to go, however was called back.

"If you find him, will you give him this?" Garrett asked, worry shining in his eyes as he held out a small pouch, supposedly of money, judging by the clink of metal.

"Ya, sure," Halt replied, shrugging and taking the pouch.

"He said he was robbed by bandits, and he left before I could call him back and give him this as well. I make it a point to try to help out as many as I can," Garrett explained.

"I'll give it to him, no worries," Halt assured him.

Garrett nodded gratefully and Halt hurried out, jogging in the direction of Redmont fief.

After about an hour of jogging and walking, it started to drizzle. Halt remembered Crowley's shirtless form running away, slipping out of sight, and winced. The angry red gashes on his back would've weakened him, and he would be more prone to catching a cold than he might normally be.

He quit walking and began running, hoping to overtake Crowley at some point soon.

* * *

Crowley shivered as the wind picked up and the rain began to fall harder, hitting against his face. There had been no sign of a storm earlier, though, as Crowley knew, storms could be upon you before you knew it.

A flash of lightning quickly followed by thunder made him jump. He shook his head disapprovingly at himself and hurried on, though exhausted beyond belief. Just two hours of traveling, though at a relatively slow pace, had left him feeling drained.

Storms had always scared him as a kid, and he had retained his storm-phobia throughout his life, still having it even then, at the age of seventeen.

Crossing his arms across his chest to hopefully help preserve warmth, he cursed. Why did the storm have to come tonight, when he was helpless?

With a jolt, he remembered the map. It would get soaked if didn't do something quickly.

He folded it quickly and stuck it under his shirt, where he'd folded his arms previously. That should help a bit. He crossed his arms once more, this time not only to help keep him warm, but also to keep the precious piece of parchment safe.

Soon, it became apparent that he could not continue on. Wracked by uncontrollable shaking and tired to the bone, Crowley was just not fit to travel in this storm.

Crowley tiredly found a large tree a little ways off trail and practically fell down beside it, falling asleep nearly instantly.

* * *

Halt slowed down, his wet longer hair slapping into his face and sticking uncomfortably to his neck. He would have to sit this storm out. It was just getting too strong for him.

Lightning lit his path, it was striking so often. Thunder filled his ears so he couldn't hear anything else. He'd heard rumors of storms like this turning even worse, into giant funnels of wind and cloud, destroying everything in it's path.

He quickly scampered off the small path and curled up under a bush to wait out the storm. His cloak was soaked, dripping with water, yet he curled it around him in an attempt to help warm him.

After just a few minutes of watching the lightning, he fell asleep.

* * *

 ** _Question of the chapter:_ Why do you think Halt trusts Crowley to give him the correct answers (should he find him)? After all, he's just met him. **


End file.
